


This Is Not A Happy Ending

by aHostileRainbow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Drama, Gen, Hurt No Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-06 02:08:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aHostileRainbow/pseuds/aHostileRainbow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you were hoping for a story of love and joyous reunion, I'm sorry to tell you this is not it. Post-TRF, might be slightly AU. It says Hurt/Comfort but it's more like HURT. No Character Death, No Pairings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is Not A Happy Ending

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I should maybe apologize for this, except I can't. It was very cathartic for me to write and, frankly, all the fics with John getting over the Great Hiatus after a single punch have seriously pissed me off. My John will always be a BAMF, in every sense. I will apologize for any mistakes in facts/spelling/grammar, though, since this all came pouring out about twenty minutes ago and I'm feeling too off to edit.

Sherlock Holmes was a brilliant man, in life and death. But brilliance only stretched so far, much like patience.

John Watson was a very patient man, in death and life. As well as being extraordinarily patient, John Watson was a generally forgiving and mild man. But it seemed Sherlock Holmes had finally found something he would not forgive, would not be patient with, not even for his brilliant detective.

If you were hoping for a story of love and joyous reunion, I'm sorry to tell you this is not it.

You see, when Sherlock Holmes pushed Dr Watson out of the way of a sniper's bullet six feet from the front door of 221B Baker Street, precisely one year after his very public death, John Watson did stare and did quietly, wonderingly, ask, "Sherlock?" However, when Sherlock Holmes smiled down upon him and offered his hand, John Watson did not smile, did not accept help, and when he rose to his feet, he did not weep for the wonder of this self-resurrection.

John Watson quietly, evenly, examined this specter of a year's sickening grief and then he closed his eyes and took a single, deep breath. His own brilliance would never be as bright or as flashy as Sherlock's but he was clever enough to deduce most of what Sherlock being alive meant. When they opened, his blue eyes were empty of all feeling and perfunctorily, he brushed down his dirt-marred sweater and trousers. He glanced once up at the window the sniper would have shot from, brushed off his hands, and quietly, steadily, he walked passed Sherlock Holmes and into the upstairs flat of 221B without speaking.

Appearing entirely befuddled and rather anxious, Sherlock Holmes followed his once flatmate. He trailed behind as Watson unlocked the flat door and entered without ever glancing back. He observed with an increasingly alarmed expression as the former soldier pulled a large, military issue duffel from a closet and proceeded into his bedroom, still without speaking.

From his perch in the doorway, Sherlock Holmes continued observing as Watson efficiently gathered a pile of necessities, a few spare trinkets and arranged them all neatly in his bag. With a last check about the room, the bag is hoisted over Watson's shoulder and he turns for the first time to face Sherlock in the doorway. He takes in the other man's position, blocking the exit, with grim indifference and speaks once.

"Move."

Sherlock, uncertain and irrationally terrified, attempts to respond, to explain—"John, I—"

"No, Sherlock," the words are quiet and entirely unemotional as Watson eyes the man rather like a wasp that had somehow snuck into his home. Without further words, he presses the thin frame out of his way with unexpected strength and makes his way out of the flat, down the stairs, and to the side of the road. Sherlock Holmes lingers a moment, surprised at the physical brush-off and the wrenching in his chest before he follows at John Watson's heels.

Standing side by side as Watson flags a taxi down, Sherlock attempts to speak once more, unclear on what is happening but filled with the beginning of a dreadful understanding that something is lost, is broken, will never be repaired.

"Please, John, let me explain. Moriarty was—he said he would kill you, kill Mrs Hudson. I had to go. I had to protect you—" John Watson does not bother to interrupt again until the door of his cab is open and he has turned for a moment to look at the man he spent a year mourning as if his whole world had ended.

When he speaks his last words to Sherlock Holmes, Dr John Watson stands easily and his left hand is entirely steady.

"You should have let me take the bullet."

And then John Watson has left, finally done with being discounted in his own life.


End file.
